


Spaces Between Spaces

by Girl_chama



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Acceptance, Angst, Beginnings, Endurance - Freeform, F/M, Family talk, Fluff, Friendship, Halamshiral, Hope, Hurt/Comfort, Jaws of Hakkon, Jaws of Hakkon Spoilers, Orlesian, Solavellan, South Reach, Studying, The Winter Palace, Trespasser Spoilers, Tutelage, Val Royeaux, arlath ma vhenan, couples fighting
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-03-14
Updated: 2015-09-12
Packaged: 2018-03-17 18:25:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 15,301
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3539495
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Girl_chama/pseuds/Girl_chama
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A receptacle for ideas and stories, prompts, etc. that need a home; all Dragon Age: Inquisition themed unless otherwise noted and featuring different characters in different settings.  Most of these are 'typed' up in my phone while I'm away from the computer and have ideas, lol.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. And if I loved you?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Solas and Trevelyan work out an understanding.

"We’ve come a long way, haven’t we?" She asks calmly, sipping at the dark ale he’s retrieved for them. The rotunda is quiet in the late hour, and only the veilfire lights the cavernous space.

"Some would say we’ve had enough adventures for several life times," he responds.

She grins, knowing several lifetimes would never sate his desire for knowledge of what has come before. Adventure, maybe, but the man clings to learning like it’s his last hope. Her smiles softens. Perhaps, though- perhaps there is a measure of contentment in him. She has only to ask to know.

"Are you happy?" she queries, and it isn’t quite the words she wanted, but it’s suddenly much more important. He looks surprised by the question, put off kilter from his usual intuition and wisdom.

"Happy?" he asks, as if there might be something more to clarify.

She doesn’t move, but waits, allows him to ponder the easy question for answers that might be less so. For a man who is straightforward and honest to his core, Solas is never simple.

"Why do you ask?" 

She sighs, current thought confirmed, and straightens her shoulders. She wants to shrug but the gesture was trained out of her, and would feel inadequate for what she wants to convey.

She hesitates, and then tries to answer, “How many lifetimes…?” She sighs, wishing she could exhale one or three of those lifetimes away. “It feels as though everything is coming to an end. We’ll be in the Arbor Wilds soon, and then that will be the end of Corypheus…” She resists the urge to sigh again. She doesn’t want to alarm him. When she looks at him his surprise has vanished into calm study. ”Nothing we’ve achieved hasn’t been hard won or come with some price tag on it. What does that mean for what happens in the next few days?” She looks away, into the keening darkness. The ale is pleasantly bitter against her tongue, and she draws up a smile. ”I just want you to be happy when this is all over.”

It’s never been awkward with Solas, save the times she’s embarrassed herself in front of him- and he’s never late in calling out her flaws. This time he’s silent and he’s not watching her. His face looks sad.

"It’s possible you’ll survive, you know." He answers, and Maker bless his strength because he can look her in the eye when he says it. She smiles, not because the words are true or because he knows it for certain but because her faith in him makes her want to believe. She recognizes this trust, this belief in their friendship, and thinks this isn’t such a bad trade off. If she has to die, she has things that neither Corypheus or the Maker Himself could take from her.

She smiles again and takes another sip of ale, but her smile does not soothe him.

"What are you thinking?" he asks, and she wonders if she should just take his drink if he won’t commit to it. 

"You mean you don’t know?" She asks, laughing.

"Evelyn," he chastises, not quite rolling his eyes. She won’t provoke him too far. He doesn’t have the patience for it presently.

"I’m thinking that… All of the power we’ve gained, everything we’ve learned, all the wisdom we’e attained, and the influence we’ve garnered… Even this mark…" She looks at her hand, wraps and then unclenches her fingers. "I think your friendship is the greatest among these."

It’s surprising how easy it is to say, when weeks ago she wanted to cut herself away from him, wanted the pain to be gone, wanted more than he could give. His friendship, though, there’s the heart of it, and if that’s all there is, that could fill the world.

When she looks to gauge his feelings at this information, he’s still frowning, not encumbered by her confession, but by what released it, “You really do think you’re going to die.”

"I’m trying to accept the likelihood."

"Are you going to fight in such a way that ensures your death?"

"If that’s what guarantees Corypheus’s end, I’m willing to do so."

Short. Clipped. Quick answers and questions because she has thought about it. She _believes_.

He breathes deeply, and she’s rarely seen his face turn so intense. This is not outburst or rage. Those few times startled and scared her. This is a different focus, but the emotion is greater. How can she feel so calm when he is not?

"And if I loved you, would that make you change your mind?"

Well, she thinks, almost startled. What a question to ask, what a stance to take. She could easily work herself into a lather by prognosticating, except… Except he’s trying to divert her, and she’s beyond it.

"But you do love me, Solas." She smiles softly, wondering if her wisdom has outstripped his. Because she suddenly isn’t the one asking him to guide her, trailing after his stature with her feelings as hooks. She’s the one walking ahead, away, and the feeling is nothing like she thought it would be. Calm, settled, discontent.

"You do love me," she reassures him, and of course he knows it. "You love me as you love finding old relics or the quiet of the Fens, guiding Cole into ‘shining places’." The last thought makes her smile, and the peace in her heart settles in for the final battle. "Maybe not the way I wanted you to, but you do love me. So no, it doesn’t change anything."


	2. Endurance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cullen and the Inquisitor both have to see to the tasks before them with grace and endurance. A blurb about pre-Winter Palace training and perspective.

He knew better than to complain about the hole in his ceiling. He did not even want to ask about seeing it fixed. Much. The possibility of drawing attention to the fact that it needed correction, when there were so many more urgent, more important needs around Skyhold made him feel crass. So when he woke to a particularly brisk winter morning, a dusting of snow at the edge of his coverlet, he quickly rubbed the sleep from his eyes, pulled on his mantle and steered himself toward the kitchens. No, the ceiling would keep for now.

He himself had plenty of work to attend. After breakfast, of course. Working with the Inquisition had attuned him to certain privileges he had not indulged with the Templars- hot coffee and fresh bacon every few mornings among them. After a filling meal, he rounded past the wine cellar and up the stairs to the war room.

It was still early, but such was his arrangement with Josephine and Leliana when the Inquisitor was in residence. There was only so much they could accomplish when she was away without her hand, as it were, to sign off on certain requisitions, troop movements, or even the management of affairs within Skyhold. He wondered if he should bring up this morning, the possibility of finding a proper seneschal and diverting some of her workload. Ser Morris was doing well enough, but securing supplies and trade agreements was not the same as running a fortress as large as this one. Yes, perhaps he should-

A full laugh carried through the door to Josephine's office and down the stairs, quickly followed by a more modulated, "If I must do this one more time it's going to turn nasty." Cullen put his hand on the door and pushed. Just beyond, Josephine was grinning while Regina turned to look at him, a pleased smile on her face. 

"What do you think, Commander?" the Inquisitor asked, gesturing to the serene lift of her lips. "Is it more 'oh, what a darling creature you are!' or rather, 'Try not to choke on your wagging tongue, you shameless harpy.'?" She held the expression a second longer and Cullen smirked.

"Definitely the latter."

She heaved a sigh that would have gusted papers off of Josephine's desk had their ambassador, who looked rather pleased with herself, not been standing in front of it. "Very well," she breathed and straightened her back. Whatever frustration she was feeling blended into her face until there was nothing left but a pleasant expression of half-tuned interest.

"What in the world are you two doing?" He asked lowly as Regina began to recite a verse in Orlesian. He thought it was the Chant at first, but then caught "lait" and recalculated. At his side Josephine pulled her writing board to her hip and grinned.

"Our Lady Inquisitor is rehearsing for her debut in the Winter Palace."

"But that's two months away," he said incredulously. Josephine shushed his sudden volume, but Regina, though her eyes cut to them, did not falter in her pace.

"It is. **Only** two months away. It will take two weeks just to reach Halamshiral. There's no telling what will happen during our travels there. Lady Trevelyan must prepare now while we are certain and focused." Her tone shifted then, "I must say, despite a few bumps, which I believe have been more formal objections to the necessity, she is doing marvelously well. Even this morning we've been practicing for two hours already." The ambassador switched between glancing at her board and turning unforgiving eyes on her charge.

"Practicing what exactly?" he asked wonderingly, still watching as Regina began to pace through a box-dance of some kind while she recited. What could you practice for two hours in this small room? The sun had barely been up a half hour. Then again, he could well imagine Josephine rousing their leader from sleep to partake in this trussed up maneuver.

"Recitation of noble families in attendance, for starters: their likes and dislikes, their faux pas, any sort of leverage we might be able to wield against them. Then the more civil arts- language, poetry, sections of novels and historical recounting. Lady Regina already has an admirable education, but she's quite rusty, and there is no denying it." Cullen frowned at the blatant subterfuge and blanched at the rest. He knew it was part of the world they walked in, but he did not have to like it as their first course of action. "It is quite a list by itself to memorize, but the application of the knowledge- well, it's not the first time I have been glad not to be Inquisitor."

"Nor I," he sighed, wondering how this changed his morning schedule. Lady Trevelyan had transitioned her steps into something more circular and was currently shifting one leg behind the other, bending slightly to accommodate. One more reason not to wish for her position, as if there weren't several already. 

She spun into a turn to face the two and he wondered if, in this at least, she was not enjoying herself. Then he made eye contact, she showed teeth, still wearing that vapid smile, and he knew the truth of it. He knew, too, that regardless of his feelings about potential machinations, he would support her. This was no more pleasant for her than for any of them. It was just one more form of endurance, duty.

The woman in question suddenly stepped to his side, "Pardon a moi, qu'est-ce que c'est, Commandant?" She was gesturing to the ceramic mug in his hand. It was still giving off a faint wisp of steam.

"Coffee, Lady Trevyan." Her mock pirouette pulled up short and she stared at him through dark lashes, falsely coquettish.

"Oui? Puis-je avoir une gorgée?" She added, and he sighed.

"I would give more than that if you would stop acting like this," he groused, and very easily her eyes lifted, her chin shifted, and she smiled at him. A real, tired smile, but genuine and familiar. This was the woman he knew. Without a word he passed over the whole mug to her.

"Merci beaucoup," she said without affectation or tittering, and her real smile remained. Both hands lifted the cup and she closed her eyes as she indulged in a deep sip. Josephine returned to her desk, but Cullen watched as she lowered the mug. Her lungs heaved contentment before she opened her eyes and passed it back to him. He held her off, though.

"Keep it. You need it more than I."

This time she grinned at him and tucked the gift close to her chest, saying, "Thank you."

"En Orlesian!" Josephine sang, privy to the entire exchange, and Regina winked at him before stepping away again.

"No rest for the wicked," she whispered.

"And no complaining, either, apparently," he murmured and decided to wait a few more weeks on addressing the hole in his ceiling.


	3. Pot and Kettle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cullen requests the Inquisitor take a moment to rest, but if she has to give in she's not going alone.

The journey back from Val Rouyeaux is a quiet one. It is only when they arrive at Skyhold that some of the tension breaks and people seem to really move again, ready to fall back into routine. Regina makes herself watch them take Blackwall to the prison entrance. Her inner circle cannot be above justice, and she cannot show a soft heart. Not in this.

Beyond Blackwall, whose fate will take time to deliberate, there is still more work to be done. Yet there is always more work, and it is Cullen who counsels her to put it aside, just for the evening. Just enough to catch her breath.

She raises an eyebrow at him and asks, “Ever heard the one about the pot and the kettle?”

“There _was_ Honnleath, if you’ll remember,” he retorts, smirking. She does remember, the cool air and the lake and the way he stepped in close just as he’s doing now. She barely has to tilt her head to look at him, and without doing so her eyes are level with his lips. He’s still smirking, and the effect is almost enough to make her forget what they are discussing.

“If you’ll come with me, I promise I’ll rest,” she vows, stepping close enough that a wayward report could not pass between them. The conflict that passes over his face is more gratifying than upsetting. He has made it clear he will not give less to the Inquisition than any former cause, but he can not expect her to relent so easily either.

“You’ve been learning tactics from Josephine,” he chuckles after a moment, his hands idling at her elbows. It’s not quite an embrace, but it’s enough that the travelers still unloading from the road give them a wide berth.

“Really, now. Is it a compromise if we _both_ win?”

Even so, she finds herself a scant half hour later building up the fire in her quarters while Cullen stretches out on the divan.

“I could do that, you know,” he says, and she believes he would if she wanted him to. It’s why he, for once, makes no move to stand, and she only rolls her hand at the hearth to encourage the flames.

Her jacket rolls off of her shoulders and she tosses it onto the bed before moving to the desk. There are a few scattered papers, odd reports and letters unfinished. She rifles through them idly, trying to settle her mind before she feels two arms snake around her waist. 

"You're supposed to be resting," he murmurs against her neck. 

"I know," she acquiesces, settling her hands over his. Her body is tired enough. Maker, her brain is even more weary, but it won't stop thinking, always moving to the next task. "It's more difficult than just saying the words." There's Blackwall and the search for Erimond and a hundred other things she could list if she only turned in their direction.

"I know," he breathes and she chuckles softly.

"Pot and kettle again, hmm?" 

He does not chastise her or rebuke her further, not even in the gentle way he has mastered when it comes to them.

"Come here," he says, pulling at her. She turns to take his hand as he leads her to the low sofa. There he makes her to sit and slowly kneels before her, hands on her knees. Her face suddenly flushes with expectation, and he smirks as if reading her thoughts. Yet his fingers only drop down to the laces of her boot where he begins to carefully untie each.

It's base work, dirt and smelly leather and who knows what else between here and the Orlesian capitol, but he just smiles, turning his eyes up to her every few seconds as if to make sure she won't bolt. In the moment she feels small, as if this is the biggest problem in her world, in anyone's world, and yet he has decided it is too big for her and is willing to carry its weight. Her lungs are suddenly tight.

The first boot is pulled off and then the second, and both are tucked beneath the seat. Cullen stands and brushes his hands against his thighs before gently pushing her against the curved end rest. She pulls her legs up automatically, letting her heels brush against the far edge.

"Stay," he says, pointing one finger at her and trying not to laugh. He fails as her shoulders begin shaking, but she obeys. She is still grinning as he steps away. His intentions take him behind her desk, but he does not look at the work there. Instead he glances to the shelves where a few tomes are bound and stacked. History and magical reference mostly, with one- oh, no.

"Hmm, this will do nicely," he says, fingers closing over the orange and yellow spine.

"Uh," she says with some gravity, "I'm just holding that here to- uh, little prank with Sera for Cassandra."

"I happen to know that the Seeker keeps all her copies of Swords and Shields under lock and key for that very reason," he says as he slides onto the divan in front of her. She has to roll to her side and press against the back firmly to make enough room for him, but even that leaves their bodies bracketed into a tight squeeze. 

She forgets her embarrassment but feels an entirely different reason for her blush as he shifts a leg between hers. Between the back of the divan pressed against her spine and the barricade of his chest pressed against hers, the world disappears entirely. All she can see, feel, hear is Cullen. 

"Is this too close?" He whispers, a faint pink in his cheeks, too, but he doesn't look away.

"No," she insists, just as softly.

This is even better than Crestwood.

He licks his teeth and swallows as he gently places his arm over her shoulder, open book in hand just behind her head.

"Chapter one," he announces, and she slowly circles her arm over his waist, hooking her foot behind his lower leg. His responding smile pulls at the words, but he does not stop reading.

She listens to the introduction of the Knight Captain, the righteous character Cassandra so admires, but she's less focused on the woman's virtue than the movement of Cullen's lips and his warm breath skipping over her cheek.

This small world is so warm and comfortable that she sinks into it, listening to Varric's words in Cullen's voice, as she pulls herself just a bit closer to the Commander, or him to her. The end result is the same. Deeper and deeper she sinks until she barely feels Cullen's chin gently rest against her crown, or the way the beat of his heart slows beneath her open palm.

"The Knight Captain knew with certainty," he reads, "as she trusted most of her intuition, that at the end of these things, all would be well."


	4. It's Not Just a Kiss

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Beyond a beginning, but before the end. It's not just a kiss. Solas x Lavellan

"Don't go," she sighed, curling her fingers against his elbow. He barely pulled at her, the resistance all in his words, his greatest strength. Yet she would not hold him against his will. "Take all the time you need," she had said, and she meant it. But then he had come to her, asked her to be alone, looked at her with those eyes and had spoken words that stoked her curiosity and caressed her heart.

 

After a moment he answered, "It would be kinder in the long run."

 

They could both be hurt. They might both die before it was over. She understood that. Was that what he was afraid of? Losing out on time? But that was every tomorrow.

 

She opened her mouth to ask when he turned, and his eyes were the heavens, his face the promise of generations past. "But losing you...." He uttered, aggrieved by the possibility, and she held her breath. She could never hope to quench the intensity she saw in him, this moment a rare lack of restraint. She didn't want to.

 

She wanted to claim it.

 

Ebbe did not pull him in. He was already on her, pressing the length of her with his thighs, hips, stomach and chest. She tried to make good on her intent, pull him closer, feel the more of him even while her lips met his fiercely. Her fingers clung to his shoulder, leveraging to push back against his mouth while his teeth nipped at her tongue.

 

She slanted her mouth against his, catching breath where she could while her fingers pioneered their way beneath his tunic. His skin was beneath hers, smooth and heat flushed. She had barely curled her hand around his waist when he pulled away. His breath was heavy, but silent, controlled. 

 

"Arlath ma, vhenan," he admitted, voice far too steady, resting his forehead against hers. Ebbe heard the words, willed them to sear through the fog in her mind. But she couldn't speak. Couldn't say anything. Not that she admired him above all others; that she trusted his wisdom but feared his aloofness. She could not say that she wanted to stay with him forever, to leave the Inquistion when it was all done, and take to the wide world just the two of them.

 

She shared his breath, licked out against his lips, felt him contract beneath her hand. But the moment passed, and he pulled away. There was no rebuke in his eyes, but a pained understanding that she thought she might feel as well. Then he was gone, down the stairs and swinging the for shut behind him.


	5. Like the Seasons

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cullen and Regina reach an understanding while visiting Mia's family.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THIS FICLET CONTAINS EXPLICIT MATERIAL.

It hit her in the most surprising way, unexpected and personal, like Solas grabbing her wrist to close the first Rift or Leliana’s voice turning harsh, demanding one life, one choice in Celene or Gaspard or Briala. She’d been in South Reach less than two days, well-behaved at that, and she was not prepared for the visceral _understanding_ when it grasped her insides and twisted them.

 

Cullen was curled over his niece, repositioning her hand on the pommel of her blade in a technique for which she was far too young. All of his attention was focused on her, a sincere smile on his lips and Annie was looking down the flat of the blade, nodding while her uncle explained its movements.

 

Something warm and sincere unfurled low in Regina’s belly at the sight, and she missed the words Mia was saying in a buzz of blood and sensation. There was nothing _different_ in his motions. He was the same man he had been yesterday, a month ago, two years ago. Yet he was laughing at his niece’s pout, dodging the clumsy swing of her sword, giving her all of his consideration. Regina put slow fingers to her cheek, feeling the heat there almost like a burn. The dynamic between her love and the child was captivating, as real as any spell and so much more complex.

 

 _They_ could have that.

 

“I know,” Mia said suddenly, but it was the hand that dropped on her shoulder that grabbed Regina’s attention. She turned slowly, her eyes finally pulling away from Cullen, and it took her a few seconds to catch up to what had been said.

 

“Know what?” she asked, and Mia smirked, chuckling low in her throat. The pull of her mouth was so like Cullen’s it was painful. It did nothing to alleviate Regina’s urge to pull him aside and begin undressing him.

 

“That look in your eyes,” she said knowingly. “That feeling that motivates it. Some women never feel it,” she explained, and Regina felt her face flush all over again, this time in embarrassment. But Mia was not chastising her or condemning her. If anything, she looked pleased with the development. “And some of them- it’s like the seasons changing or birds hatching out of an egg. Who knows why it happens when it happens? But you’ve got the look on your face like it’s time.”

 

Regina resisted the temptation to disagree on principle. It was one thing to be teased by well-intentioned strangers, those wanting to bless the Herald with prophecies of children or dogs or what have you. It was something else entirely to be called out by her sister-in-law, and regardless of what she was feeling, the explanation rankled.

 

She was the leader of a multi-national movement, not a barn cat or a deer or, Maker, some Mabari bitch, who had to rut when the urge struck. Just the same, Mia was not being cruel or unkind in her observation, and she had to know something of what she was talking about, already having three children of her own. If the feeling hit in its own timing and season, then Regina had gone from winter to summer in the moment it had taken to see Cullen teaching his niece how to wield a weapon.

 

His laugh cut across the garden just before the frustrated wail of the same young child as she threw the weapon to the ground. Both women turned at the cry, Mia already taking two steps forward, but Cullen waved her off. He knelt down next to his niece and spoke softly. There was no, “That’s a shield in your hand!” in his correction. Regina watched as the girl sucked up her tears and nodded again. Cullen ran a hand over her fluffy blonde hair before she grabbed for him. His face melted into tender empathy before he curled her into his arms, and Regina inhaled a slow breath.

 

They could _have_ that.

 

All over again, the trust and care between the two was entrancing, and when Cullen looked up, smiling at his sister and wife, Regina did not return the gesture. All she could do was stare at him.

 

-

 

That night after dinner, Regina watched him pull his shirt over his head before folding it neatly and laying it in the chair at the foot of their bed. It had been a full day of gardening and playing with Mia’s children, letting them get to know their aunt and uncle. Their visit thus far had been more than she had hoped. Mia and Willem had warmed to her, going through stages of aloof politeness to realistic expectation to warmth and welcome in less than two days.

 

Regina had handled the fluctuating attention with her usual distance, more Inquisitor Trevelyan than new sister-in-law and auntie, but then this afternoon had happened, something in her had shifted and she, too, had become warmer. Less polite and more true to herself. Her new relations had seized on the change and dinner had been marvelous and intimate and familial in a way that she had never known.

 

Really, it reminded her of her first interactions with the Commander. Their first _real_ discussions, after the attack on Haven, after he had pulled her off of a frozen mountain without hesitation or distrust or suspicious glances. Before they had closed the Breach, she had maintained a certain distance from him herself, assumed his personality was naturally cold and unwelcoming. She had only been partly right, but her understanding of his _why_ had been all wrong, Kinloch Hold and Kirkwall and hundreds of nightmares no one deserved laid at his door. Perhaps it had been the same with Mia and Willem, assumptions and misunderstandings, but now everything was different.

 

His low voice cut through the quiet evening, interrupting her musings, “Did Mia say something to you this afternoon?” She was already watching him when he met her glance in the polished silver mirror, and she smiled that their thoughts were so similar. The reflection was not clear enough to see him properly, so she turned, angling her glance up at him. His eyes narrowed.

 

“Such as?” she prompted, resuming her ministrations. Her eyes did not leave him, but watched his approach.

 

“I’m not certain. Something to secure positive relations. Something Josephine might be proud of?” he offered with a laugh. “I… do _so_ want you to like one another.”

 

“We _do_ ,” she assured him, and tried to remind him, “We just don’t share the same memories you all do. We… have to find _other_ foundations.”

 

“Have you, then?” he asked, reaching for the tie to his trousers. She watched the motion for half a moment before she realized he was waiting for an answer. His knowing smirk pulled a smile to her face and she ducked her head. It was as good a lead question as any.

 

“You might have some say in that, actually,” she said, placing the brush on the wooden vanity. She stood, meeting his eyes as he turned to her with curiosity. They were not yet on the same wavelength, but she could see in the way his back straightened, the way his fingers slowed, that they soon would be.

 

“Why do I get the feeling you’re plotting something?” he asked with amusement, perked eyebrow challenging her. She hummed and did not bother to settle the flutter in her stomach, curling her hands in front of her.

 

“What do you think about children?” she asked behind a smirk. His response was immediate, eyes widening, hands stilling entirely, because he knew her question was not general or theoretical. He wanted children, and it was not something she had ever forgotten.

 

“Regina,” he warned.

 

“Yes, Commander?” she asked, mimicking his baritone while he frowned at her, dropping his hands entirely. She sucked in her lips to keep from grinning and clenched her own fingers tightly to stop her fidgeting. She wanted to grab him, to feel whatever emotion might be strumming through him. They had to be of the same mind first.

 

“Children of our own?” he clarified, despite his understanding, because, “Children that you were not certain you ever wanted?”

 

She nodded slowly, twice, let her actions speak for her. He took a step toward her and grinned again, and this time she did not try to swallow her laughter. Color was rising in his neck, and his tongue darted out over his lips, but his expression was starting to match hers. Giddiness was rushing up her neck and into her face and, oh! Regina shook her head, reaching for his hands, which he readily gave.

 

His face was so tender, so open, and she focused long enough to explain, “I just saw you with Anora today. You were so _wonderful_ , and I thought… We could do that.” He watched her, eyes seeking out any hesitation or misunderstanding, and grinning again when he found none.

 

“We could,” he agreed carefully, watching the emotions she could feel rolling over her face: excitement, adoration, amusement.

 

“We could be parents, Cullen. Together.” He laughed, nodding down at her.

 

“We _could_ ,” he echoed, grinning like a fool and matching her expression entirely. She bit her lip, slinking her hands towards his loosened trousers. Her palms found his warm hips beneath the cotton hem, and her fingers sank into the skin of his thighs. Suddenly she stilled and thoughtfully frowned at his chest.

 

“Mhmm, though, it might be terribly difficult to _practice_ the making.” Her face slipped into a mimicry of concentration and determination and she bit her lip. “I certainly wouldn’t want you to feel obligated to take on more responsibility. You’re a very busy man.”

 

Cullen didn’t even try to look put out, only murmured, “Mhmm,” into her neck as he slipped his arms beneath hers, pulling her against him, “But I’m very dedicated.” His lips pressed against the bands of her neck, grasping skin delicately. “And focused.” His warm mouth found her ear lobe, sucking it gently. Regina’s smile disappeared as her mouth fell open, and she winced, angling her head to the side for him.

 

“Uh huh,” she breathed, slipping her hand back, grabbing for his arse. The skin and muscle kneaded beneath her determined fingers, and Cullen’s breath hitched at her ear before quickening.

 

“And I work… _very hard_.” She laughed as he rolled his pelvis against her. Yes. Yes, he did. Her free arm found purchase around his back, curling into him as he angled them toward the bed. “Oh, now you’re _laughing_ at me,” he said sternly, nipping at her neck again.

 

“No, this is- ohhhh, this… is very serious.” His tongue laved over the aggravated skin and her heart thudded sharply in response. Her throat felt dry, but she could not slow her breath. She blinked away the haze trying to cloud her mind, and with a sudden surge of strategy, turned her head to divert his roaming mouth. He caught her lips, smiling against them as he dropped his hands lower to scoop her up against him. Regina clung to his shoulders and wrapped her legs around his hips, grinding her pelvis comfortably against his even as he groaned into her mouth.

 

He was already hard, but Regina was unsurprised. They had been having this conversation for years. Before they had really committed to one another, children had been discussed and tabled. The war was too serious. Their lives were too dangerous. Mages and templars. What would it mean if their children were mages? What if another war broke out? What if, what if, what if?

 

“ _Regina_ ,” he had finally said one day, without pressuring her or backing down from his own conviction, “ _The ‘what if’ will always be there. Only the conditions will change._ ” Nothing else had been said about it, even as she had sometimes caught him in a wistful expression, longing without words. She had tried not to think about it as they had continued to save the world. So many desires had been set aside, and not only his.

 

But seeing him with Annie today… and there were so few children at Skyhold to watch. Had there been more, would she have changed her mind sooner?

 

Her tongue swept past his teeth and against his, velvet smooth and so, so warm. Cullen brushed back, leaning into the motion, propelling her to cling more tightly to his shoulders. She pulled at his lip gently with her teeth, so gently, before pulling away to meet his eyes. Her breath was already heavy, equal to his, and he dipped his chin at her invitation, brown eyes warm against stormy blue. Her stomach clenched at the sight of him, the comfort of him so close, and the expectation of the future. Whatever happened, they could do this.

 

“You are going to be an excellent father,” she murmured, promised, dropping her forehead to his. Her lips sealed the words, a gentle kiss against his mouth that he met and held, prolonged. The emotion behind it was sincere and understood, doubt and old fear. She freed a hand to run up and into his curls, holding to him as she pressed another kiss against his nose. “You’re a wonderful man. A perfect husband, just as you are.” A kiss against each of his eyes. “They will- adore you.” Against his forehead. “Just as I do.”

 

His eyes were full of praise, fluttering closed with each of her kisses, until she finished and all he could do was stare at her. Before he could say anything she grinned, and crossed her ankles behind him. “Well, not _just_ as I do.” Her hips squeezed her close to him once more, and his laughter stuttered from his mouth, breaking breaking through the serious atmosphere.

 

He was still laughing, happy and delighted, as he took a knee on the bed. He leaned forward, settling her over the coverlet, yielding as she pulled him down to her mouth again. Her hands were content to cup his cheeks, leisurely running her tongue against his and back, drawing him down and down to her, again and again.

 

His hands were less content, and gently gathered up her shift beneath him until he could slip a hand to her uncovered ribs. The chill in his fingers was immediate, though, and she shied away from the touch instinctively.

 

“Sorry,” he apologized against her lips.

 

“No,” she murmured back, forgiving and intent. She shook her head and took hold of the hand. “You should probably put it down here.” Their hands slid over her body down to the meeting of her thights. “It’s much warmer.”

 

“Right,” he agreed, nodding against her forehead before she kissed him again. She lifted her own hands to resume the untying of his breeches that had never quite been finished.

 

Even with the invitation, he took his time, tickling the thighs that she spread on either side of him. His fingers moved up and down the soft skin, dragging roughened pads against the more sensitive flesh. Regina pleaded with him, a wordless whine rising from her throat. From her knee toward her thigh, only the span of a hand, back to her knee and up a little higher, his fingers caressed without committing to what she wanted.

 

“Lords and Ladies,” Regina suddenly announced, adopting an Orlesian accent, “I present to you, Commander Tease Blah-blah Rutherford of ze Inquisition.” Above her, Cullen chuckled, even as his warmed fingers finally dropped perfectly between her legs. She gasped beneath him, but tried to persevere, “He ki- hmmm. He _killed_ the…” He lifted himself to watch her face, cocking his head to the side while he drew promises and affirmations over the bundle of nerves beneath his thumb and fingers.

 

“I’m sorry, were you saying something?” he prompted, and she gave him a leisurely smile before giving up entirely and slipping further into the bed. She was grinning as she shook her head.

 

“Wonderful,” she breathed, before her face contorted in affirmation. He was still watching her with a smirk, but there was less humor in his face than purpose. She shifted her hips beneath him to increase his friction and watched as he licked his lips slowly. Regina exhaled sharply, trying to keep up with him, thinking and feeling too much at once.

 

Children. Cullen. _Love_.

 

Her fingers slipped beneath the drawstrings of his pants against warm skin, downy hair covering the planes and divots of his abdomen. Before she could reach his cock, his hand pulled her searching fingers up, shifting to his knees as he did so. His fingers twined through hers and he gently kissed her knuckles. She glanced at their hands and sought his eyes, confused at the denial, vulnerable from his touch. Cullen continued to work at her bud. He shook his head then pressed her wandering hand into the mattress, “Not yet,” he said thickly.

 

Regina nodded sharply and pulled him back to her for another kiss, which he readily obliged, urgent and searching. Only, her breath was coming faster now, too fast to endure his mouth on hers and she pulled away, holding him to her. Her sighs were taking on pitch of their own accord.

 

At her ear, Cullen’s voice was deep, “Our children will have no equal in mother.” Her gasp sounded like a sob in her own ears and Cullen drew back to look at her again. “Your strength, your compassion, your wisdom… Your _everything_.” His faith was her undoing, and her toes curled into the mattress beneath her as her legs began to shake. Cullen kissed at her open mouth, its corners, her lips, even as he continued to stroke her through her release.

 

“I love you,” she murmured. “I love you so much.”

 

“I love _you_ ,” he returned, kissing her closed eyelids tenderly.

 

She lay on the bed boneless and indolent, breathing heavily and slowly. Her heart was still racing. With a glance to Cullen she saw that they were both still mostly clothed, and his damnable trousers were under what had to be uncomfortable strain. Even his eyes looked a little tight, but he was smiling at her, his lips kissed swollen and cheeks flushed with color. Maker, he was so beautiful.

 

Tenderness found its way into her voice, because her question was less amused than she intended when she asked, “So, you think we could practice a little bit more?”

 

“Is that an invitation?” he asked, leaning down to suck at her neck. His voice had become so deep with want and need that she immediately began to bunch and pull the fabric of the shift towards her neck.

 

“Do you need one?” she asked cheekily, breaking through his attention just long enough to drop the cloth on the floor. He stared at her breasts with an appreciation that always made her feel particularly lovely. She still felt the warm, groggy feeling in her bones and muscles that made her want to drop back onto the bed and let him have his way with her. Then she took a deep breath and pushed the feeling away, even as she murmured, “It’s not as if I can do this myself, you know.”

 

“Thank the Maker for that,” he groaned, and this time did not still her hands when she reached for him. She leaned up, threw a leg over his hips and rolled them with a pleased laugh. Cullen sank back into the bed, and she wondered if her face had looked so glorious in moon and starlight. Or if it was just his particularly reverent expression that made her want to lie on top of him, slip between his bones and marrow and live in the secret places that made him so wonderful.

 

“I love you,” she said, reaching up to stroke his face. He followed her fingers, kissing the tip of her thumb. His pupils were wide, face constricted with feeling.

 

“Regina, I love you, too, but I don’t see how you can dare call me Commander Tease. If you don’t _move_ , I’m going to-” he breathed.

 

“Fii~ine,” she groaned, put upon and laughing, as she sat back on her heels. He reached up to cup her breasts running his thumbs over her nipples gently, kneading the soft skin with careful, rhythmic motion. She smirked down at him, fringe falling into her face and nearly obscuring him from view as her fingers finally loosened the tie to his trousers. The cloth was liberated enough that she could fold it down, and his cock sprang free with a motion that made him sigh in relief.

 

She watched his expression for an appreciative moment. Then she reached beneath his arse and pulled sharply on the trousers to fully unclothe him. Cullen arced his hips off of the bed as she liberated his hips and thighs and legs.

 

His hands were reaching for her as she tossed the cloth aside and she took hold of them, placing them on her hips as she straddled him comfortably.

 

“We could have a girl,” he breathed as a slow roll of her pelvis over his cock covered him in slick heat.

 

“Or a boy,” she countered, grinning as she shifted her hips and watched his face take on a rictus of pleasure.

 

“A boy,” he echoed breathily. He twisted beneath her, arcing again to try and find purchase or friction. This time Regina took satisfaction in gently grabbing his wrists and holding them firmly above his head. Pressed into the pillow, he did not try to fight her. His eyes were already half-closed, dark pupils hiding the warm color of his irises.

 

Divine power was in her left hand, and twice she had walked in the footsteps of the Maker. Yet she never felt more powerful than in this moment, when this strong, lovely man, was brought to this point because of her. And now he wanted to father her children.

 

She leaned forward and kissed each wrist gently, sighing as his tongue licked up against her breast. She grinned down at him as she pulled away, her heart ready to burst with grace and gratitude and love.

 

She slipped her hand between them and took hold of his shaft gently to guide him home. He had already taken care of her, and she sank down around him easily, savoring the feeling of him inside her as her body stretched to accommodate him. Cullen’s head dipped back against the pillow as if he’d already come undone and she smiled before she rolled her hips around him.

 

“A boy,” she breathed, rocking forward. Cullen groaned, his hands skimming over her knees and up her thighs.

 

“Or a girl,” he reminded, breathing with her. She leaned down as she set a slow, easy rhythm for them, and caught his mouth in a kiss. “A healthy, perfect child,” he murmured against her mouth, before his hands settled at her ribs. He pulled her down to him again, kissing her with harmony and understanding and she nodded before he firmly, gently switched their positions again. Regina only smiled at him, yielding to his command. He had waited so long.

 

“Better?” she asked quickly and he nodded, losing his words as his hand took her shoulder to steady her beneath him. She cradled his waist with her thighs once more and braced against the low window sill of their guest room.

 

“A healthy baby,” she hummed up at him, meeting his eyes through the pale light. He was smiling down at her, grinning, beatific, as if Andraste had just reached out a hand to touch him. Regina arched her hips to meet his thrusts, losing her own smile as her breath shortened, and Cullen’s rocking hips intensified, bearing down on her bones. His face was a mask of concentration, of prayer, in its intensity. She held his eyes, nodding as her fingers skittered over his ribs to his back, stroking down to squeeze his arse.

 

He came undone soundlessly, and the look of perfect ecstasy on his face filled her heart with beautiful things that had only simple names. He sagged before he caught himself so as not to drop on her. She was unfinished, but satisfied just the same. Cullen licked his lips above her, and his arms were shaking as she pulled him down to rest more easily against her.

 

“This time next year, we might be parents,” she breathed into his ear and bit his shoulder before he could apologize for leaving her on a precipice. He took the diversion, and the sound of his laughter was light and easy.

 

“We’re already parents,” he rejoined, and she shook her head in laughter, thinking of the Inquisition. “But it might be a child of our own.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Had a genre shift challenge with some friends over on Tumblr and this resulted. Prooooobably not my best piece ever, but I had fun writing it!


	6. After the Battle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nearly a year after the final battle with Corypheus, Trevelyan returns from ending the conflict in the Frostback Basin. Circumstances are usual, and Cullen is not at all pleased.
> 
> *Spoilers for Jaws of Hakkon follow*
> 
> Written for [Fumm95](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Fumm95/pseuds/Fumm95), who wanted something dealing with "separation" and angst-flavored.
> 
> Uhhhh, this is not a happy chapter.

A raven with news of The Inquisitor’s departure from the southern mountains outpaced her arrival by days. When the Commander marched from his tower with her missive in hand, face like a thunderhead, careful eyes noticed his posture and displeasure. The news of her return spread through the keep as quickly as its brisk, mountain winds. Skyhold began thrumming with an agitated energy, unsure of how their leader would return.

 

Cullen grimaced as he rounded the window again. The vantage point gave him eyes to their most forward approach. If he calculated the mileage correctly, she should arrive today. Indeed, she should have returned yesterday, if the promise of her intended pace held. Yhe letter had only bits of information that explained her tardiness.

 

The vellum was still on his desk, rumpled and smoothed out. After Corypheus’ defeat, most of their work had been putting out fires, and she had gone to the Avvar territory only at the request of an Orlesian professor. Eager for an opportunity to do something other than fight and kill, even then she had been uncertain how the history of the first Inquisitor might help their cause, but she had gone just the same.

 

He took one more glance at the letter, her elegant script, taking comfort in the understanding that whatever beasts she had faced there had been finished by the time she had written something so clean and legible.

 

_Hold beasts._

 

_Ameridan. Telana._

 

_Demons._

 

_A dragon._

 

The last vexed him worst of all. Of course. Of course, she had put down such a creature without extra backup, only those of her remaining inner circle at the ready. He wondered at that, if the Avvar had been unwilling, or simply had not been consulted. Reports from Harding had suggested they were enthusiastic warriors in other arenas. She should have had more help. Blackwall had nearly been killed, covering The Iron Bull from a blast of some kind of dragon magic that the letter did not clarify. Her own foot had been broken, though she assured him that Dorian had healed the worst of it. All of the rest had taken scrapes and blows that would probably only be mentioned with laughter when they finally returned.

 

Cullen was not laughing.

 

When he looked back to the window, The Iron Bull and Cole were leading the group around the bend and toward the gate. He inhaled sharply. Almost as soon as he saw them a horn’s blast sounded from the parapets outside his office. His feet were already moving.

 

He could hear the chains of the portcullis clinking even as he strode toward the stairs, barking at Thomas, “Send word to the Spymaster and Ambassador informing them of the Inquisitor’s return.”

 

There was a brisk, “Yes, sir,” and Cullen nodded even as he continued walking. His pace increased, but as he reached the ground level he realized he needn’t have bothered with a message to Josephine. She was already descending the steps from the Great Hall.

 

“Oh, did you hear that the Inquisitor has returned!” she called, light feet carrying her around a puddle of snow melt.

 

“I did,” he answered shortly. Josephine eyed him, not quite frowning, and continued speaking.

 

“What a marvelous journey this will have been. Not only has she secured the southern Frostback region, but Stonebear Hold is eager to become our trading partner. Oh, I know _exactly_ how to spin this to ensure mink is next season’s must have in Val Royeaux.” Cullen did not bother rolling his eyes. Josephine was speaking to herself more than him, anyway. He caught sight of another raven flying from Leliana’s roost and understood that she would not be joining them until later.

 

In another half hour the group arrived, and more bodies began clustering behind him, staff and soldiers eager to see their lady returned. Cullen held his position as Regina’s mount led the party through the gate. He only knew it was her because of the beast carrying her, her favorite. Tan leathers and a deep, fur-lined hood that hid the color of her hair made her almost unrecognizable. Even the staff tucked into her gear was a deep teal color, not one from the keep’s arsenal. It was another piece of information that had not been shared. Miniscule as it was, it still grated.

 

All at once she pulled the horse to a stop and tossed back her hood, revealing her fair face and dark hair. A hearty cheer went up around him at the sight of her, and she turned, eyes searching, until they found his. Only then did she smile, and only then did bodies begin to move past him, eager to help unload the party’s baggage. Her expression pulled at the hard knot in his chest, and he felt some of his annoyance ebb away. She would not smile if she were not well, and he had missed her so. Only, when she slid out of the saddle he could clearly see that her right foot was not properly booted, but bandaged.

 

Muslin made dirty with travel covered her ankle and disappeared beneath the hem of her pant leg. She hobbled slightly, holding to the high pommel of her horse before grabbing her staff. The impromptu walking stick touched down before her foot, and when she turned, her smile was strained.

 

All over again he felt a surge of annoyance. With himself. With her. He covered more than half the distance between them, and she smiled at his approach.

 

“Commander, it’s good to see you,” she greeted, smiling and coy, as if everyone in Skyhold did not already know of their relationship.

 

“Inquisitor,” he returned, more stilted thanks to his annoyance. Her smile faded and he felt a stab of guilt that he promptly squashed.

 

“Inquisitor!” Josephine said with more enthusiasm, rounding into their meeting. It was also tradition that their true reunions were held privately, and so Regina was not surprised when the woman cut into their conversation.

 

The Antivan dropped her shoulders and stood a little taller as she mastered her energy, “We are so pleased to have you returned. Scout Harding’s reports have been nothing short of glowing with your success in the Basin. The history of Inquisitor American is truly extraordinary.”

 

Regina laughed lightly, and Cullen wondered what else had not been included in her report. “Are you in need of a healer, though?” their Ambassador asked, staring down at her copious bandages.

 

Blue eyes turned towards him for a split second, hopeful, then she shook her head, turning back to Josephine with the explanation, “Dorian has been monitoring it. It’s getting better every day. I should be able to put a proper shoe on tomorrow, in fact.”

 

“If I recall,” the man in question interjected, “I said in a _few_ days.” He leaned on his own staff, and next to Regina the man looked refreshed, untouched by whatever they had encountered in the South.

 

“Yes, and it’s _been_ a few days,” she countered patiently. “You’re not a healer, Dorian,” she commented.

 

“No,” Cullen agreed quietly, and Regina glanced back quickly at his tone.

 

“Though why you would want to wear shoes is beyond me,” Dorian continued to tease. “Perhaps you could adopt an elven cultural marker to go along with the Avvar fashion that is agreeing so well with you.” He smiled before turning back towards their other companions, leaving Regina to chuckle mildly. She shrugged gently as Cullen and Josephine both turned back to regard her clothing.

 

“It’s incredibly agreeable; very warm,” she defended blithely. “Josephine, I think we could definitely find a market for these in Val Royeaux.” Her hands cast down the front of the coat in quick appraisal.

 

“I agree!” their ambassador chimed with enthusiasm. “Though, we’ll have to encourage more embroidery, to be sure.”

 

Cullen cleared his throat before either woman could be carried away by fashion, “Regina.” She turned to him with high eyebrows, slightly nervous. He frowned, a little embarrassed with himself, even as he asked, “Do you have a few minutes to speak privately?”

 

“Of course,” she answered with a nod and eager eyes. “Shall we try after the debriefing?” He did not grimace as the urge to do so struck him, but listened as she explained, “I’m afraid that my letter did not do justice to all of the encounters we had.”

 

“Apparently,” he responded, glancing down at her foot. She smirked, but was interrupted from responding.

 

“Hey, Boss, good work!” The Iron Bull called as he headed toward the tavern. “Let’s do that again, some time.” Regina smiled pleasantly and lifted a hand in acknowledgment even as Cullen tried to dampen his scowl.

 

“I quite agree,” Dorian said quickly, following the Qunari. “I believe this is the first time history has not revealed Tevinter to play the villain. Please sign me up for more of these encounters, pagan gods or no.”

 

“No such thing,” Sera quipped, trailing up the stairs after them. “Whatever them Avvar say.”

 

“Gods?” Cullen asked carefully, and was gratified when Josephine’s surprised expression perfectly matched the tight feeling in his chest.

 

Regina laughed lightly, more cough than humor, and her face flushed, “The Avvar aren’t known for writing over much and bird-worthy vellum was in short supply. Help me inside?” He did so, offering her his arm. “Josephine, would you mind sending for Leliana? It’s going to take a few hours to get through all of this, I suspect.”

 

* * *

 

 

“A most interesting tale,” Leliana said in an understated tone, but there was appreciation in her face as she shifted in her seat. Chairs had been procured for all four, thanks to Regina’s need to sit, and they congregated a short distance away from the war table with repast. The Inquisitor nodded and lowered her tea cup, as a satisfied expression settled over her.

 

“Inquisitor Ameridan was a Dalish elf, yet he served the Chantry?” Josephine queried.

 

“Not the Chantry directly,” the Inquisitor clarified. “It seems that he and Emperor Drakon were friends. Certainly they respected one another to the extent that when he asked, Ameridan went to fight the dragon.” Cullen inhaled sharply, his own tea grown cold in an effort to give his whole focus to the recounting.

 

He folded his serviette over the few shortbread crumbs in his lap and set the cloth aside as he asked, “And this god you mentioned?” The Inquisitor turned to look at him. There was a moment of quiet as they gathered their thoughts, memories of Corypheus’ steady approach to godhood still fresh in their minds. It had not been a full year since the ancient magister’s defeat.

 

“Professor Kenric is under the impression,” Regina answered carefully, “that Hakkon is no more than a spirit; a powerful one, but a spirit nonetheless. Thane Svarah Sunhair’s account of his departure seems to corroborate that- if we may assume the Avvar’s ‘Land of Dreams’ is the Fade. It certainly looked like a spirit’s peaceful departure.” Leliana nodded in satisfaction, and Josephine even smiled, but Cullen stared at her with a kind of terrified wonder.

 

The account of the Dragon’s demise, capitalized in her explanation, the meeting with Ameridan and the struggle simply to move through a temple whose very air sucked the warmth from her bones. No wonder she was still wearing the fur-lined garments. Cullen rubbed a hand over his mouth, trying to push down his grimace.

 

“And what do _you_ think?” he asked. She turned at his sharp tone, her expression concerned.

 

“Disregarding the fact that I’m not an expert on the Fade and its spirits, I’m not certain it matters _what_ I think.” She smiled lightly. “The dragon is defeated and Thedas is safe from Hakkon’s threat, whoever or whatever it was.” She laughed, “If this experience has taught me anything it’s that history will decide for itself what it wants to remember.” She smiled, lifting her tea cup again, and Cullen snorted.

 

“I’m certainly glad you learned _something_ ,” he retorted, and Josephine and Leliana’s slowly turning eyes were tangible things on him that he ignored. Regina was sitting across the table from him and had no need to turn but she shifted just the same.

 

Her expression was careful as she answered calmly, “I’m afraid I don’t take your meaning.” Cullen scowled, not feeling very much like matching her attempt at civility, her ill-timed concern for others’ feelings. He wondered if she could appreciate the irony, even as she waited for an explanation.

 

“You come back with a broken foot, Blackwall’s arm in a splint- the man will be out of commission for weeks, and don’t think I didn’t notice Cole’s bruises.”

 

“There was a dragon involved, if you’ll recall,” she said, resorting to the dry tone she adopted whenever she was feeling defensive. Pretending distance and apathy usually drove other parties to irritation, but he knew her too well, and he was already irritated.

 

Scooting to the edge of his chair, his words were hot, “Oh yes, and hundreds of Avvar, if Harding’s report is to be believed.” Regina’s eyebrows dipped at the attack, against her and not Harding, who was above reproach in her work. “Did they suddenly all turn coward?” he pressed. “Leave you to fight the beast alone?”

 

Her pale face flushed as the first cracks around her facade appeared, “It was a very quick scenario. As I said, the dragon broke free from the temple almost immediately after we defeated the Jaws of Hakkon.”

 

“And I imagine that the same warriors who accompanied you in an assault on the Temple suddenly disappeared into thin air,” he said sarcastically. She scowled, and Cullen felt a snap of victory. Good, if she understood half of his feelings then-

 

“This was a menace that Kordillus Drakon, the first emperor of Orlais,” Cullen felt his eye twitch, “ordered the last Inquisitor to dispatch. This threat was on equal footing with a _Blight_.” She stared at him with wide eyes, passivity gone as she willed him to understand. “Maker’s breath, Cullen, we had to kill the _dragon_ , not wait for scattered warriors to band together and maybe piss themselves before deciding to turn tail, anyway,” she exhorted.

 

Cullen grimaced, shaking his head. As if she had never fought a dragon before. They were all possessed as far as he was concerned, beasts with far greater than normal intelligence, and there were plenty of those she had run _from_ , not toward. Or so she had told him while he laughed and nearly choked on his ale.

 

“I can’t believe this,” he said, stilling himself. “I can’t believe that you’re going to be _so_ stubborn, trying to justify-”

 

“ _I’m_ stubborn?” she declared, leaning forward in her chair. “I’ve just spelled out the entire encounter in the plainest terms I know.”

 

“We discussed this, all _four_ of us,” he said, gesturing to the other stolidly silent members of their group. “After Corypheus we all determined that this Inquisition would settle, and that you would not take unnecessary risks.” And they had. They had all been sapped in body and spirit after a year of constant panic, so tired that they laid in bed unable to fall asleep and had trudged through the keep for weeks after the festivities had ended, trying to find the pieces of themselves they had left behind in the rush.

 

“Excuse me, but it was set up to be a history lesson in the woods. I didn’t go charging after risks.”

 

“No?” he asked sharply, and she stared at him. Sunlight behind him illuminated her face, evening out all of its markers, and she looked younger than her 28 years, while he only felt his age. “Then why didn’t you disclose everything that had happened, hmm? If it was _over_ , if you were going to be late, anyway, you could have damn well sent a letter explaining why, instead of leaving us here worried, and don’t try and say there was not enough vellum.”

 

“Maybe because we were a bit busy nursing our wounds after saving Thedas again, or maybe because I knew you would react just this way,” she retorted hotly, at the edge of her seat. Josephine sniffed once, but Regina kept going. “It’s _done_. Leave it alone.”

 

“Regina,” Cullen said firmly as he lifted a hand to emphasize his point, “you are _always_ like this. After you dispatch a dragon, it’s like you think you’re shielded with invincibility, and its _madness_ -”

 

“Oh, Cullen, _stop_ it,” she snapped, even as her face pinked.

 

“Like you want to get yourself killed and you don’t care who gets hurt along the way!”

 

“That is _far_ enough,” she demanded, injured by the accusation. She reached for her staff, though whether she meant to beat him or throw fire at him, he did not know. Neither, she proved, as she climbed to her feet, but words were still pouring out of him like an angry thunderstorm and he had to make sure she _knew_. He climbed to his feet as well, bloody demon-possessed dragons and a fight that had taken her days just to recover from, while he was stuck her without answers, and with no way to help and she was still hurt even _now_. Old fear consumed him.

 

“You can’t just run around making bad decisions like you’re a bloody golem and expect never to get hurt or-”

 

“You are not the Inquisition, and you are not the Inquisitor!” she shouted suddenly, her words barreling over his in a way she had never done before. “You’re only the Commander!”

 

He reeled back, as if she had suddenly shot a bolt of lightning through him. She seemed to feel the same pain, because her hard expression crumpled immediately into doubt. “…o-of the army,” she finished weakly.

 

They stared at one another. Her eyes cut away first.

 

“Just the Commander,” he reiterated, and the silence that followed was profound. Two sets of eyes were watching the back and forth. Cullen wondered how they had suddenly come to this point when he was trying to make known his concern. The words felt like a knife between his ribs, when he had been waiting for her for nearly a month, and she had been more concerned with chasing a dragon.

 

“Cullen,” she said softly, and the fingers of her free hand flexed as if she might reach for him.

 

“Don’t you mean ‘Commander’?” he interrupted, ashamed before the last syllable left his mouth. He saw the moment she was lost. Her pride flared, her heart hardened, and her hand stilled. Her other fingers curled around the new staff, found among Hakkon’s trove, and she stood up straight.

 

“If _that’s_ what you’re going to take away from this _discussion_ ,” she said calmly, and her face was carefully blank once more, “then I think we’re done today. Leliana, please send those reports from Fairbanks to my quarters. I’ll peruse them after I’ve had a bath. I suddenly feel like I have a lot of shit to wash off.” She glared at him before she turned away and Cullen grimaced guiltily. He was angry, too, though. At her. At himself, and his feet felt like they were weighed with iron.

 

“Of course, Inquisitor,” Leliana responded, and all three of them waited as she hobbled from the room, barely managing to pull open the heavy door and slide into the hallway by herself. When it closed behind her, Cullen sighed heavily.

 

He dropped his forehead into his palm thickly before running the digits into his scalp. Leliana was watching him even as Josephine slowly walked back toward her office.

 

“You need to fix this,” the Spymaster counseled him.

 

“I know,” he said thinly, still watching the door.

 

“You _both_ need to fix this.”

 


	7. You Don't Pull at All

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For [TeaDrinkingDragon](http://teadrinkingdragon.tumblr.com) of Tumblr, who prompted me with "Cullen and Dorian, bonding over something unexpected."

In the cool of the evening, when soldiers drills were finished and the daylight was too low for good reading, Cullen and Dorian continued the chess game they had been playing for three weeks.  Dorian was only a few turns away from certain victory when a messenger arrived.  Cullen received the missive with a terse nod, before reading the letter with the same focus with which he planned the dismantling of ancient fortresses.

Taking advantage of the new arrival, and his sudden thirst, Dorian asked the messenger, “Would you be so kind as to bring me a glass of chilled milk.”  The scout blinked at him before confusion pulled her face into a frown.  

She faltered before Cullen interjected a calm, “Ignore him.”  Then he tucked the letter next to his leg and nodded a dismissal while Dorian sighed.  He returned his attention to the board, not concerned enough with the contents of the letter to leave their game.

“Do you mean to return my pawn, then?” he asked a few moments later, not taking his eyes off of his remaining pieces.

“The pawn got away,” Dorian insisted, watching the messenger returning back to the main hall, even while he palmed the missing metal piece, “and without even a plan to return with milk.”

Cullen sighed, “You do realize they aren’t servants.  And this isn’t Tevinter.”

“That much is certain.  The last three course meal I had was in northern Orlais.”  He glanced askance, knowing the Commander was too honorable to steal any of his pieces.  Though not too honorable to roll his eyes, apparently.  “The gratin dauphinois would have made Andraste weep.”

This time when the Commander sighed, Dorian sighed, “I know, I know,” but Cullen shook his head.

“Actually, I was going to say that a glass of fresh milk would be very nice.  I can’t remember the last time I had milk, or cream… that hadn’t already been sugared and whipped into some dessert monstrosity.  Crokenbush or something…”

Dorian stared at him for a moment, too surprised and delighted to correct his horrendous pronunciation, silent so long that Cullen finally glanced up into a gleeful expression, “The stalwart Commander expressing a desire?  Now I’m afraid I do need a servant simply to record this moment.”

“I grew up in the country,” Cullen reminded him.  “My family were the ones milking those cattle every morning for your family’s enjoyment.”  The idea of their esteemed Commander milking anything instead of hacking at it with a sword rather made Dorian want to chuckle.

He smirked, “Does the Inquisitor know this particular skill set of yours?”

“To what end?” Cullen inquired, claiming Dorian’s knight.  He hummed with disapproval as Cullen explained, “You can’t graze sheep this high in the mountains.  No grass.  No sheep.  No milk.”

“And no reminders that the leader of the Inquisition’s armies is from the Hinterlands, hmm?”

“I have nothing to hide,” Cullen assured him.

“Very well, then.”

“But fresh milk, warm or cold, would be very nice,” he affirmed after a moment.

“At least that’s one thing we can agree on,” Dorian groused as Cullen swept the game.

It was three days later, after Dorian had been mostly absent from the general goings-on in Skyhold that Cullen woke to a loud clamor at his office door.  He answered, half-asleep and still tying his pants into place, to see that it was only the mage knocking.

The Tevinter gave him an appreciative once over, even as Cullen asked quickly, “What’s wrong?  What’s going on?” expecting a crisis.  He had never seen the man on this side of the sun.

“I need your assistance,” he was assured calmly, and glowered in return.  “Though, for your dignity, put a shirt on.  We’ll need to do a bit of walking.”

It took a few more minutes of persuasion to actually get Cullen to join him instead of returning to sleep.  They passed down the stairs toward the tavern, then turned sharply back towards the great hall before passing beneath its pathway and finally routing toward the stables.

Cullen rubbed a sleepy hand over his face, before muttering, “If you’re meaning to show me the Inquisitor’s new dracolisk, don’t bother.  I was here when the thing arrived to make sure it wasn’t going to be a threat to the horses.”

“Please do give me some credit,” Dorian answered, throwing a curt wave to Master Dennet.  “I am far more aware of the nature of curious beasts than you, my friend.  I happen to need your expertise in another area.”  He smirked back at him while Cullen’s scowl turned into something more curious.  They turned together into the last row of stalls.

The usual smell of horse and hay was pervasive, and Cullen was so busy glancing around that he nearly missed the almost-human cry from the back of the stables.  His feet came up short in his surprise, and he glanced sharply at Dorian, who grinned.  From his hand was hanging a bucket that Cullen had missed.  It was also the first time that Cullen had noticed he was not wearing his usual garish garb but something much more tame- breeches and a fine linen tunic, nicer than most of the things Cullen ever wore, but still plain relative to his usual tastes.

Dorian slowed his pace as they approached the last stall and directed with his free hand for Cullen to peer inside.  Doing so, Cullen snorted in surprise and turned a slowly-spreading smile on the altus, who smirked back at him.

The nanny goat was by herself, her coat white and splotched with grey, and she bleated at the sight of them.  “She just kidded, but I was able to convince her shepherd to part with her for a little while.”  Dorian did not explain that he had had to do three evening’s worth of magic displays until the child had relented to part with the creature.  He had done more demeaning things in his existence, but the Commander need not know it.

“You don’t shepherd goats,” Cullen corrected, even while reaching for the stall lock.

“There, you see.  I need your assistance,” Dorian said peaceably.

Cullen shook his head and took the bucket, “I can’t believe that I’m doing this.”  He was smiling, though.

“Yes, you can.  Remember the goal,” Dorian shot back as Cullen took a seat next to the goat, who stamped nervously.  Cullen rolled up his sleeves and reached forward.  But instead of grabbing her teats, he laid one hand on her neck and stroked her back gently.  “Buying her dinner first, are you?” Dorian asked and Cullen shook his head, his neck heating.  He gave no response, only murmured until she calmed.

“I’m not trying to milk a creature whose kid is gone when she doesn’t know me.  It’s a recipe for getting a hoof in the face.” It took a few moments, but under his careful hands and quiet tones, she settled until her eyes were nearly dull.  Then, Dorian watched carefully as Cullen began to milk the animal, collecting her give in the waiting bucket.  There was… a measure of skill to it, he noticed.

“So you don’t just pull on them?” he asked curiously.

“No, you don’t pull at all.  You have to roll your fingers down like this,” Cullen answered, miming the motion for a moment before returning to his work.  The rhythmic plink plink was beginning to sound like rain as the pail filled.  The goat was calm, her strange eyes peering up at Dorian who held his hands up as if to say, Don’t look at me.

“Maker, this reminds me of home,” the Fereldan said after a few minutes.  “My sister Rosalie and I used to wake up hours before the sun to go milk the sheep.  Every day, rain or shine, name days and First Day, as long as there were lambs, there was milking to be done.”

“Can’t skip a day if you feel like sleeping in?  What if they don’t like being milked?” Dorian queried.

“No, it’s very painful for them if you don’t see to it.  Most cattle make more milk than their offspring need, anyway.”

“No wonder you wanted to be a Templar,” Dorian snorted, but Cullen only shook his head, neither admitting or denying the charge.

“Don’t tell me you skipped your milking chores every morning,” Cullen called, laughing before the words were finished.

“Lessons and readings and spell practice, more like,” Dorian admitted, but his tone was such that Cullen did not pursue the question.

It took a quarter hour until the goat was dry, but the pail was nearly half full.  Cullen lifted it at an angle to show the spoils.  It was certainly more than a few tumblers’ worth. He departed the stall and locked it behind him, only to turn and see that Dorian also had procured two pewter cups without Cullen noticing them.

“How…?”

“I am a man of great skill,” Dorian assured him gravely.

“Who can’t even milk a goat.”

“But who can make the goat’s milk cold.” He took hold of the bucket’s rim and deliberated between pouring into the cup or scooping the cup into the bucket.  At last he decided on pouring.  When the milk was only a finger width from the rim of the cup, Cullen watched light bloom and sparkle around it.  He ignored the usual anxiety he felt when in such close proximity to magic and instead concentrated on the frost forming on the silver-colored vessel.  Suddenly, the light faded, Dorian smiled, and passed the cup to him.

Cullen inhaled and took a sip.  He closed his eyes as the sweet, slightly tart, cream coated his tongue before racing down his throat.  When he opened them, Dorian was watching him for a verdict.

“This was an excellent idea,” he admitted with a slow smile.

“Ha!” Dorian cried victoriously, going through the same motions with his own cup.  “Who says Fereldan Freeholders and Tevinter mages can’t find common ground?  The next time we’re having problems with international recruits, we’ll send them on a milking exercise,”  Cullen smiled slightly and waited until Dorian had finished chilling his own cup.

Then he lifted the pewter mug and said, “To common ground.”

“And the comforts of home,” Dorian echoed.


	8. Enough Left

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A moment between the final mirror and the last cut scenes of Trespasser- spoilers for Trespasser DLC.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I needed some catharsis after the DLC.

It doesn’t move.

She remembers the harsh sound of her own breath, just louder than Solas’ command, “Take my hand.”  And she had.  She still doesn’t know what to make of her own thoughts in that moment.  Only, his fingers had curled around hers and the agony in her hand had receded like a gust of wind at her back.  She could have cried for relief.

There is no relief now.  She is aware of her shoulder, the meaty muscle just beneath it, and the weight hanging farther down, but her fingers are lax, the skin shimmering like mother of pearl.

It won’t move.

The Iron Bull offers once to carry her, and when she refuses, Cole explains for her, commentary that fades into the wash of feelings buzzing in the back of her mind.  Dorian stands at her side and she is grateful, so grateful, he is here in this moment, though she cannot find the words.  Not for gratitude.  Not for anything.

How do you explain that one who was your ally, your friend, wants to-  **can**  burn down the world?

“You have some time,” Solas had said, and she knows she should have more fear, but the fire has passed and she has now.  She has  _now_ , and it… is.

Through the paths they walk, making their return to Halamshiral.  Battle weariness drags at her, but it is the only hindrance to their progress.  Whatever proprietary feeling Solas has toward the eluvians, he does not impede their journey.  

The Darvaarad is backed by the sound of the sea, but no legs walk it.  No voices fill it.  Though she knows they should press on, return to the Exalted Council and share their news, it will not happen tonight.  It is Cole who suggests they stop.  She does not argue, ready to let someone else lead for a moment.  A day.  A year.

Maker, she’s so tired.  The Deep Roads is not deep enough to measure her weariness, and yet…

Solas.  The Fade.  The Veil.

The  _world_.

She sits and stares at the fire, half-banked from the fortress’s previous occupants.  Dorian stokes it with a wave of his hand and sits at her side while she stares at the flames.  What was night when they first arrived is nearing to dawn, and the sky is orange when she sees that Dorian is huddled close to Bull’s side whispering words she cannot hear.  Cole is keeping watch, she thinks.

Then his voice is in her ear, and she realizes he’s been at her side for some time..

“Cullen will be worried,” she shares.  Her husband of two days, lover for two years, and it’s the first concrete thought she’s had about him since Solas departed.  They are the first words she’s spoken since her hand stopped crackling.

“Curious, calm, confident,” her friend assures.  She smiles faintly and remembers words past, “ _…Protecting and proud… stronger when you hold him,_ ” and her smile fades as she once more tries to flex her fingers.  They remain curled in a mockery of rest. It’s just an arm.   _Was_  an arm.  Now it’s…

“It finds its own dreams now, made of magic, moments and memories,” Cole echoes.  He reaches and places his own hand at her elbow, and just above the bend she can feel it.  His fingers are warm.  “You’ve lost part of yourself.  I know what that feels like.  You’re different, but not  _less_.  You see the world with possibilities you never did before, but it takes time.”

“I’m not sure we have much time,” she admits, and beneath his shaggy fringe Cole’s eyes are serious, but unafraid.  His hand drops into his lap as he faces the horizon.

“There’s enough.”

 


	9. Enough Left, pt 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Picks up immediately after 'Enough Left' in this series.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More spoilers for Trespasser DLC. Content warning for talk of amputation, and brief mentions of it.

Against intent, she does not sleep that night, though her friends do, and that is worth waiting. She is not alone. There is no need for reminder that she has never been alone in this battle. Cole’s words, Dorian’s sneaking glances, Bull’s subtler ones… The idea of her friends greeting her in Orlais once more… Cullen will be relieved. Worried, and relieved. Her initial malaise passes, and she cordons off her despair as Cole’s back disappears through the Eluvian.

Bull has gone ahead to prepare the others, and so only Cole and Dorian greet her as she passes through the mirror. In the mage’s hands are a slip of black silk, “It matches, silly girl,” that he pulls beneath her arm and around her neck before tying off the ends. What was her arm is foreign weight, heavy against her trunk.

Well, Dagna has been wanting a piece of her.

The thought is so ludicrous that she barks laughter, startling Dorian with the sound. He smiles, but she shakes her head and drops a shaky breath. Maybe he would laugh, and maybe it’s too soon. She hasn’t forgotten how he yelled at her after Adamant.

Cole’s voice breaks through, “Sera would take it. After the yelling.”

The deceit of Halamshiral is petty and pointless, but it is almost welcome after the race of yesterday. Maker, only yesterday… Solas’ words ring in her ears, “ _The Qunari spies in the Inquisition tripped over_ my _spies in the Inquisition._ ” A deep breath, and when she steps onto the western terrace it is with her head held high. There will need to be changes, but perhaps she can have a day or two to tend to her arm before she addresses them.

She sees Cassandra first. Her friend is a spearhead, and she is on Regina before she can open her mouth.

“Are you all right?” Cassandra says, noting the sling. Regina nods, but her eyes are on the blond head of hair approaching only steps behind.

The Inquisition soldiers part for their Commander without a word and Cullen’s arms are already lifting out of their brisk pace. She vaguely recognizes Bull’s form behind him. It is the relief in her husband’s eyes that puts tears in her own.

She sidesteps Cassandra, and lifts her arm, clutching at him as his words wash over her, “Maker, Reggie.”

“It’s-” her voice breaks with disuse, “I’m all right.”

It’s not quite true, but true enough. She breathes his familiar scent, feels the rhythmic rise and fall of his chest, too shallow and telling. “I’m sorry I worried you,” she whispers, and his sigh languishes over her ear. The rush and fear of the past days’ events slow to this moment, and she realizes how close she was to losing him. To losing it all.

For this, she will let herself be grateful to Solas.

“You can let me worry about you a little,” he promises.

When he pulls away from her, he’s smiling, but then his eyes alight on her arm and quickly back up to her face. She shakes her head minutely, yet smiling. It’s odd, and saying goodbye will take time, as Cole counseled, but in the moment her failed arm feels like a trifle.

“We need to talk.” Her head turns to Cassandra. “All of us need to talk.” About the Solas, the truths that cascaded into her, what the Inquisition will become. For a moment she feels light-headed, and grasps Cullen’s arm reflexively. It budges up beneath her touch.

“You’re unwell,” he reads, his voice quiet.

“I’m well enough, though… My hand...” _My arm_. “We need to talk about that, too. I’ll live.”

Telling her friends, those followers and heroes of the Inquisition, is at once cathartic and hurtful. They pick apart her anxiety and make it their own, and the burden lessens. Most of them are gone from the Inquisition, or soon will be. This truth is not to beckon them back, but because they have each earned it. And as she watches them absorb it, the fear on some faces and the resolve in others, it sinks into her bones that the fight is not done. Whatever happens to the Inquisition, her fight is not done.

When the dinner bell rings, the group begins to disperse, and Regina meets Vivienne's eyes. There are no gestures or secret code between them before the enchanter is walking to her.

“Black silk, darling?” she tuts. “Dorian’s work is so… _noticeable_.”

“If you’re feeling reductionist, you could take the whole thing off,” Regina half-teases, but Vivienne’s eyebrows raise.

“So macabre, dearest,” she chastises even as her calm gaze sweeps the mostly empty room.  Understatement is her forte, after all.  Quickly, she adds, “Here is as good as any place, I believe.”

At her good arm, Cullen asks, “ _Now_? Are you ready for this?”

Her levity fades, and Regina sighs, “It’s done. When Solas removed the Anchor’s power, I knew it straight away. The pain is gone, but so is my arm.”

He does not argue. In this, there is no stand to take. They sit, Cullen clutching her right hand and Vivienne cradling her left with a clinical stare. In the end, the woman sighs, dark lips hardly parting.

“To be touched by the anchor’s power for so long has left a magic residue I cannot penetrate. Not without possibly doing greater damage to the rest of you. We’ll have to take some of the good with it.”

Regina sleeps.

When she wakes, Cullen is lying at her side, facing her. His fingers are laced through her hand. Vivienne is gone. She turns and sees the remains of her arm, the tucked and clipped sleeve of her loose shirt proof of her friend’s work.

Sitting up is something of a trial, and when she looks to Cullen, that he does not move, he explains, “I’m here if you need me, but it’s best to do it yourself.” There’s an experience in his words that she understands implicitly. With a nod, she begins to pull at the ties of her tunic.

“I want to see it,” she says, still looking at the rolled up fabric. Beneath, the stump is pale, a little swollen, but clean and smooth. Her shoulder still works just fine, lifting and lowering, but there is nothing left of her elbow. If she closes her eyes and squeezes, she can still feel it there. Her fingers are still _there_.

Her eyes prove otherwise.

“It’s just a hand,” she sighs, and Cullen’s fingers lay gently over her wrist. “Of all the things to lose… My hand is better than my life, right?”  He half-smiles.

“As you say.”

She doesn’t want to think about her hand, her arm, right now. There are more pressing matters to attend. For a moment she wants to laugh. Her body has been dismantled, and there is hardly time to mourn. Always, something more pressing will call.

“What you said the other day,” she begins, meeting his waiting gaze, “about ‘the certainty’ in your life.” His eyebrows lower as he waits for a damning surprise and she explains, almost but not quite certain of his response. “What if we end it ourselves? Do it our way, instead of being dictated by Orlais or Ferelden?” As the questions sink in, she remembers Solas’ words, and the actions of her people before then.

“You would disband the Inquisition? See everyone… _leave_?” he asks urgently, clarifying but not yet condemning, and she nods.

“We did what we set out to do, didn’t we?” she adds. “As far as Corypheus is concerned, that is… What we do now…” She shakes her head slowly. “We have to know we can trust ourselves, trust those around us, and as we are now… I’m not sure we can.”

It’s a hard pill to swallow, and Cullen shakes his head, “We can’t fight a war when we can’t trust our own people.” His head drops down almost to her lap and she rubs a hand over his shoulders, taking comfort in comforting him.

“So, you’re all right with it?”

“No,” he admits, mumbling against her thigh. “But neither are you, I think, and yet it is what we must do.”

He lifts himself with a sigh, and looks down at her arm. Emotion runs over his face as if the sun where shining on it. She can see the question ramp in his eyes, and is prepared for it to be asked. So when he speaks, “If you had to give up both arms, both legs… If I had to carry you for the rest of my days, I would,” she is surprised. He sentiment is always so sincere as to catch her off guard. This time is no different, and she nods, wobbling as she reaches out for his hand. He clasps it between both of his, and she is grateful that she does not have to speak when he adds, “We’ll fight. Of course we will, but… however long that fight lasts, I am glad we have time together.” The corner of his mouth ticks up, delaying her tears for her curiosity, as he adds, “I plan on having many more years with you, wife.”

Sometime later he helps her pull her with the buttons of her velvet coat. The decision is made. Now only the after remains, and the Exalted Council has tired of waiting for her.  

“Did Varric tell you he gave me an estate in Kirkwall? As well as a title.”

“He may have mentioned it,” Cullen snorts, and she grins at his exasperation.

“So you definitely think we should go there then?” she clarifies, looking at her reflection in the mirror. Cullen’s silent grimace starts a cascade of laughter in them both before she calms. “I think we should go to Ferelden. South Reach is supposed to be particularly lovely this time of year. Don’t you think? We can take Surana and show him his homeland. I think your siblings would love him. Not to mention that _you_ can show me _your_ homeland, and I can see this chess prodigy I've been hearing of.  I don’t think I’ve ever been to Ferelden when my life wasn’t in danger, and…” She trails off because Cullen has yet to speak. She turns, waiting to see what’s caught his attention, but it's her.  He is staring at her. The easy smile on his face says more than words could, and she pouts.

“Daft,” she teases. “You’re supposed to chastise me for something or another.”

“And when would I _ever_ do that?” he says, slipping both arms around her waist.

Her hand curl around his neck as she presses her forehead up to his. The Exalted Council will wait a bit longer. By the end of today she’ll have one less title and more responsibility than she’s ever faced in her life. Yesterday, her despair was greater than she’d ever known. Today… she has hope.

It is enough.


End file.
